


Forget It

by deliciously_devient



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: BAMF Stiles, M/M, Magic AU, Magic!Stiles, like so much magic, this is basically a fantasy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-23
Updated: 2016-08-05
Packaged: 2018-07-16 18:47:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,760
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7280440
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deliciously_devient/pseuds/deliciously_devient
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The air was crisp, cool in the early morning. The witch was tied to the stake, his brown eyes burning red with the light of his anger, though he made no move to break the ropes tying him.<br/>"Any last words?" the priest asked, and the witch tilted his chin up, glaring at the assembled crowd.<br/>"For a century, my family has protected this town," he growled, his voice ringing out clearly. "For a century, we have brought the rain in a drought, the sun in the winter, and kept your animals safe, your crops flourishing, and you have repaid us, repaid me like this."<br/>"You're a devil worshiper!" one of the crowd shouted, and the witch laughed.<br/>"Why would I worship a lesser being?" he cackled, and there was madness in his eyes. "A curse! A curse on you all! I will return, and I will not rest until each of you is dead, your families dead, your souls damned to the very hell you think you are sending me to!"<br/>The executioner lit the pier, and the witch never stopped laughing as he burned.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

He's almost dead when it happens. They're fighting a nest of harpies that decided to take up residence in Beacon Hills, and one of them had clawed his gut, and he's pretty sure his hands are the only thing stopping his intestines from falling out all over the floor. The harpy is standing over him, smirking, and it's the words out of her mouth that trigger it.   
"There are always ways around ways, mon cher," she purrs, referring to the runes they'd carved around Derek's train station to keep the harpies out. They'd gotten through them while Stiles was there, doing more research.   
"Yeah," Stiles says, his pained expression turning into a slow, dark, deranged smile. "But there is no way around me."  
It's like he was waiting for this moment, memories and knowledge just under the surface of his skin, anticipating this second to flood his mind and make power flow through his veins. Words, ancient, harsh and lilting at once, flowed from his lips, and he watched in detached amazement as his stomach knitted together, wounds closing as if they'd never been there.   
The harpy seemed rooted to the spot as Stiles rose, staring at him with a look of growing horror on her face.  
When Stiles stepped towards her, she seemed to snap out of it, and attempted to turn heel and run, but it was too late. The teen -wasn't he, still, a teen? So many memories were confusing him- snatched her by her hair, dragging her to the ground with a preternatural strength. He lifted her shirt enough to expose her pale, feathered stomach, and began drawing looping runes there, in his own, leftover blood, unconcerned as she clawed his arms, trying to escape the grip he had on her throat.  
"A curse on you," Stiles muttered as he drew. "A curse on your loved ones. A curse on your family. A curse on your kind. You will rot, from the inside out, until you beg for death. It will be slow, and you will writhe in pain every moment."  
More of those ancient, harsh, lilting words fell from his lips, the blood he'd painted on the harpy glowing brightly as it was burned into her flesh. She screeched, a loud, inhuman noise echoed six times over where the other harpies were fighting with Scott, Derek and Allison.  
"What are you?" the harpy gasped, shuddering as the curse took hold, body convulsing in pain.  
Stiles considered the question, his own eyes furrowing as he wondered. So many thoughts and memories swirled around his mind, so many voices vying for control that he was unsure how to answer.  
"Everything," he answered, standing and observing the harpy writhe, whimpering as her vocal chords started to rot out, blackened blood dribbling from her mouth.  
He walked away from the dying harpy, and sat, back leaning against the wall of the train station, eyes closing as he found a moment of repose. He liked these moments most, when he had only just remembered and he was at one with himself. It would not last; it could not. There was too much, too many memories, too many others wanting another time in the sun, at the fore. It was part of the reason he tried not to remember.  
But this time, this life, it belonged to Stiles, not any of the others, and he should not be denied his time just because the others wanted more. He was not weak willed enough to give in to them either, and the thought brought a smile to his lips.  
He closed his eyes, exhaustion overcoming the body, and sighed as he relaxed into sleep.  
____  
Stiles was normally a slow waker; he would come to consciousness in increments, senses flooded with information in a slow dribble.  
That was not the case today; he woke instantly, whimpering in pain as his head throbbed, sitting up and cupping his temples in his hands in an attempt to alleviate some of the pain. It didn't help much, but this pain would be over soon, he knew.  
"Stiles?" came Derek's concerned voice, and the teen forced his eyes open to reassure the werewolf that he was fine.  
It felt like he'd been punched in the gut when his eyes fell on Derek's face, the breath going out of him and emotions flooding his chest so quickly there was no room to draw another breath. Disbelief, joy, remorse, guilt, love, all flooding him in a rush, and he wasn't sure what was showing on his face but whatever it was made Derek's brows furrow up in concern.  
"Stiles? What's wrong?" the werewolf asked, and there was an old memory just on the edge of Stiles' grasp, a name on the tip of his tongue, but just as suddenly as he'd been flooded with emotion, it was gone, leaving him feeling hollow and worn.  
He shook his head to clear it, trying to bring himself more into the present.  
"Memories?" and that was Scott, off to the side, brows furrowed up in confusion.  
"Memories," Stiles said, his lips turning up in a grin. He was starting to get excited, his heart picking up speed as the weight of his memories fully sank in. He was powerful; it would take time to harness and retrain his body to handle this power, but it was there and it was his. He was no longer the weak human hanging around the wolves, no longer a liability.  
"I killed the harpies," Stiles said, and there were looks exchanged, and Stiles noticed Allison, the way her hand tightened on her crossbow, and he knew he could dissemble it with minimal effort, could kill her as easily as he'd killed the harpies.  
"You're a witch?!" Allison demanded, and Stiles grinned.  
"I'm not a witch," he said. "I'm the witch. I've been reincarnated since people first started using the craft. I know everything and now I remember it all."  
"Stiles," Derek said slowly. "I think you might have hit your head."  
Stiles snorted, and held out one hand, summoning a flame to his palm with a thought. It danced just above his skin, and the other three stared at him in shock and varying degrees of disbelief.  
"Okay, that's actually really cool," Scott said, grinning slowly and Stiles matched his expression.  
"Right?" Stiles exclaimed, bouncing in his seat as his mind raced, the possibilities making his head spin. "I'm like, Yoda or some shit. This is fucking awesome."  
"How are you just suddenly a witch?" Allison demanded, and her suspicion was nearly palpable. She didn't believe it was him, Stiles realized; neither did Derek, if his expression was anything to go by.  
"Reincarnation," Stiles said simply as he stood up, swaying slightly as he tried to balance with a tail he realized he didn't have anymore. Damn. He'd liked that tail. "I've been reincarnated more times than I can count, or really care to remember. Certain phrases will trigger me to remember, whether I want to or not, and the harpy said one of them right after she gutted me."  
"Uh huh," Derek said, taking a step forward. Stiles looked into his eyes, and was once again hit with a profound sense of longing, and he shook his head slightly to clear it. There was something about the alpha, something so familiar, but Stiles couldn't place it for the life of him. "I think we should take you to Deaton."  
Stiles scoffed, shaking his head. "I'm not possessed, and I'm not someone else or whatever it is you're thinking," he insisted, but he knew a losing battle when he saw one. "But if it'll make you stop looking at me like I've suddenly been replaced by a pod person, then we can go see that two-bit hack."  
With that, Stiles stormed out of the station, smirking when the other scrambled after him, and he slung himself into his jeep, waiting for the others to cram inside as well before taking off. It was a short ride to the vets office, and he was waiting for them, just as Stiles had known he would be.  
"Deaton, old buddy, old pal of mine, please tell these two I'm not possessed," he said casually, blinking as he saw a swirling pattern of green mist rise from Deaton's skin. He blinked, and it was gone, and he realized he must have caught a glimpse of the other man's aura for a moment. Interesting. That wasn't something he'd been able to do for a while.  
"And why do they think you're possessed, Mr. Stilinksi?" Deaton asked, tone amused.  
"Because I suddenly remembered my past lives, and now they're calling into question both my sanity and my authenticity," Stiles said, bouncing on his heels impatiently.  
"Hmm," Deaton said, and there was skeptisism in his eyes too, and honestly, Stiles didn't have time for this. He wanted to go home and practice his newfound abilities, figure out how his magic worked in this new, young body.  
Deaton was kind of slow as he worked, methodical as he poured salt on Stiles, burned herbs, and murmured in Latin. Stiles was nearly vibrating out of his skin by the time he was done, and Deaton packed up his supplies.  
"As far as I can tell, you are neither possessed, nor a pod person," Deaton said at length.  
"Told you!" Stiles crowed triumphantly, leaping up and doing a dance around the table. "Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go see how cool I am in the privacy of my room. Later!"  
He was in his Jeep before the others scrambled out, realizing he had brought them there. He might have left, only he liked Scott.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey guys! if you like this story, please comment; I often don't update stories that don't get commented on because it feels like no one but myself is enjoying them and...yeah, if you like it, please comment, even if its just a "more pls" thanks!!

_Hands slid up his bare waist, rough fingers tracing the lines of muscles. The contact was vaguely arousing, but their afternoon had mostly consisted of love-making, so it remained vague._

_The witch yawned, stretching and grinning, not opening his eyes as the hands continued their lazy perusal, turning slightly to allow more access to his pale, freckled skin._

_"You can't tell me you want to go again," he murmured, voice low though there was no necessity. The witch's hut was on the edge of town, far from prying eyes and ears._

_A huff of laughter, and soft lips caressed his throat, gentle, searching. "I always want you," a deep voice murmured back, just as quiet. "I feel as though if I stop touching you, you'll disappear, a fever dream."  
_

_At that, the witch opened his eyes, long fingers reaching out to cup his lover's cheek. He looked into the bluegreygreen eyes and smiled softly, stroking his thumb along one cheekbone._

_"I will always be here, my love," he said softly. "No force in this world will keep me from you."_

***

Stiles jolted awake, hands immediately going to his temples as the headache that had woken him up receded. He tried to keep ahold of the edges of the memory -because that's what it was, what it had to be- but it was too...too old. It slipped from his fingers, leaving a longing in his chest so deep it made him rub at the offending pectorals, the hollow feeling so intense he suddenly felt like crying.

He shook his head and looked at his alarm, sighing when he saw it was still dark, weak lines of dawn fingering out from the east. He might as well greet the dawn, then, he thought; it would be a good way to gauge the power of his body, standing in the light of the growing sun and feeling himself out.

The pack had been full of questions, after they'd left Deatons; some of them he could answer, others he couldn't, and some he chose not to. He was only figuring out this new life himself, barely able to organize the voice fighting in the back of his head, the memories and more prominent personalities of past lives vying for control of his body. 

This was why he hated remembering, Stiles thought crankily as he made himself a cup of coffee, inhaling the aroma and letting the familiar scent calm him. It was always hard, juggling so many other personalities inside his own mind; it had driven him mad on more than one occasion, made his grip on reality tenuous. Luckily, Stiles was incredibly stubborn, so bringing the others to heel wasn't that hard once he was fully awake.

He took his coffee into the back yard, sitting on the porch steps and watching the sun make its journey across the sleepy morning sky, closing his eyes and letting the light of the new morning spill on his face. He focused on his breathing, letting the cool air calm his racing mind, looking inward, trying to feel out the power he knew was thrumming just under the surface of his skin.

He wasn't sure how long he sat there, just breathing and looking inside himself, before he found what he was looking for. In the blackness of his self, his power was a bright pinprick, loud in color and sharp in shape, bright greens and blues and purples, sharp bright spikes forming and falling as the bright ball of it rotated and shivered, just waiting eagerly for him to touch it, bring it forth and use it.

He'd ignited himself last night, he realized; he may never have discovered his own potential if that harpy hadn't said what she said; in all likelihood, he would have died last night if she had just decided to watch him die in silence.

"No such thing as coincidence," Stiles murmured to himself as he opened his eyes, staring at the sun, which had just risen over the horizon. He was buzzing with energy, his core jumping excitedly as it realized he knew about it now, causing him to nearly vibrate with excess energy.

He sat his coffee aside in favor of doing push-ups, trying to work of the electric buzz rushing through his veins and making him feel like his teeth were going to chatter out of his head. When he got tired of push-ups, he went on to jumping jacks, then bur-pees, then crunches and squats, until his muscles were shaking with effort.

He still felt on edge and buzzing, but it was lessened now, and he had to get ready for school, so he ran upstairs for a shower, dressed, and spent fifteen minutes tying knots in yarn, small, intricate little enchantments. It was instinctual, and when he tried to remember where and when he had learned it, he only got a vague impression of an older man sitting him on his knee and teaching him how to tie each knot.

He ended up being ten minutes late to school, a bag full of the knots and more yarn shoved hastily in his bag.

The first two periods went by without his friends confronting him, but he was cornered by Lydia and Erica on his way to English. He held up a finger as they zeroed in, reaching into his bag and pulling out two of the most intricately braided knots he'd made, taking Erica's wrist first and gently securing it around her fine bones, sighing quietly in relief as some of the nameless anxiety he'd had building in his chest the entire morning eased.

He took the other one he'd taken out, this one a vibrant red where Erica's had been purple, and wound it around Lydia's wrist, more of that anxiety easing, but still there. He had several more bracelets to give out.

"What the hell, Stilinski?" Erica demanded, voice low as she stared at the bracelet, her expression torn between irritated and fascinated.

"It's for protection," he said with certainty. "I just, I have...I have a feeling, alright? Don't take it off," he said in a rush, shifting awkwardly from foot to foot. He reached in and grabbed another, this one a light blue, and handed it to her. "That one's for Boyd; you see him before I do, please give it to him."

Erica looked like she might protest, but then she caught sight of the anxious look on Stiles' face, and her mouth snapped shut and she nodded.

"What's this about you being a witch?" Lydia said, completely unfazed by the whole debacle, and Stiles grinned at her.

"A reincarnated witch," he corrected, and Lydia narrowed her eyes. "You can come by after school, my dad's working late. I imagine the whole pack is gonna be there."


End file.
